


Six on a Meathook

by homo_pink



Series: masquerade fills [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Possessive Behavior, Serial Killers, True Crime, True Love, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-23 15:37:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16161836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: it's a love story, of course. and love is red.written for the spn_masquerade prompt:Sam and Dean are serial killers rather than hunters. They feed off each other's insanity and kills.





	Six on a Meathook

**Author's Note:**

> this is very bare bones but i wanted to write even a small, quick something for this.
> 
> originally posted [here](https://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/8997.html?thread=3297061#t3297061).  
> (thank you to everyone over there for the kind, kind words.)

Dean was never built quite right.

Genetics found a loophole somewhere, a way of giving him so much exterior extravagance, too much, maybe, and not enough cored through the interior where it was crucial. 

They say it’s what happens when you don’t have a momma, your moral fabric’s messed up, a pinch where there shouldn’t be one. The impulse to laugh and laugh when butterflies hit the windshield, or the greytail in the wall snaps its neck on a homemade feeder trap.

But Dean was all wrong even in momma’s fat cow belly. 

Structurally, he’s perfect. 

He can look like a doll in the right light. Fair hair, lolli red mouth. Complexion gone like chipped china, skin spotted over with summertime love. Eyes to knock you to your knees. You’ll ask, “what color are they?” 

You’ll never really know. You won’t get close enough. Not you. Not like that.

Sam will say they’re green with slices of brown. They’re camouflage. His real eyes are hole-black underneath.

Dean’s 3rd grade teacher used to call him angel face. Mr. Benham. The smudged glasses and kiddie porn type. Blameless, might be, for knowing the existence of a kid like that and dreaming about it. That big It. 

You can’t see Dean Winchester and not think, oh, all sorts of sick shit. 

Sam was only four when they’d go pick Dean up from the classroom that smelled like pencils and Pine-sol but he remembers tugging on Dean’s hand, remembers the “oh, is this little sir Sam?” Remembers wanting to bite big-gut in the back of the ankle, inexplicably, and squeezing Dean’s thumb tighter while he thought it.

He’s pretty, Sam’s brother. In the mornings, he’s a mirage. A mirror of something soft. The right light can play a lot of fine tricks. But Sam much prefers Dean in the dark anyway.

“Do you love me, Dean? Do you love me right now?”

Wet sounds and bed sounds and two tongues behind teeth. 

“‘course, Sam. You know you’re—”

“How much? Tell me how much. Say it slow. Mean it.”

“All my heart, I swear.”

“Yeah?”

More. Please more, god, god, press it in, hold it there. 

“What about Heather’s heart? That’s her name, isn’t it? The one that’s been, ohh, leaving letters in your locker.”

“She’s not—”

“I’m not mad. I’m not. But just.”

Squeak squeak squeak, sigh, spit, so wet, you’re so wet, are you gonna—oh _god_ , I love you, I love you.

“Would you love me with her whole heart, too?”

“Yeah, yes, please, Sammy, I—”

Shh. Dad’s coming. Be quiet. Don’t pull out.

Sam, though. Sam has no excuse. Sam’s ugly through and through.

 

~

 

He finds an old pink sewing machine buried at the bottom of a closet in the leaning sideways house they’re stashed in one snap-neck stretch of autumn. 

Sam doesn’t know how to sew, not like seamstresses. Just small time paternal/fraternal stitchwork. Skin isn’t the same as cloth but it’s a step in the right direction. It’s only a distracted thought anyway. Maybe he’ll sew a scarf.

“Just a couple of months,” John says, once they’ve been there a week. He’s John more often than he’s Dad. 

Sam’s sure he can teach himself the needle in that sliver of time. He’s taught himself a lot more in a lot less. 

He likes that the brand of the machine is Brother. Sam traces a shaky lil’ heart over it with his pinky finger.

 

~

 

Sam, blank thoughted and born insane, snaps a thick beige rubber band against his wrist. 

He wonders how many bands it would take, and how many times they’d need to be wrapped around, to cut off circulation in a grown man’s thing before it fell off. Would it stink? Would it be a dead chunk? 

What if it orgasmed on its way to the floor?

What if Sam did while he was watching it?

Snap. _Snap_. That stung. That’s nice. Catch and release, catch and release. He waits for Dad to leave. Dad always leaves. 

 

~

 

Dean’s little dear is androgynous at 13 ½ and his looks could go Ann or Andy.

Small, slender. Sunburn smudging his cheektops, spider legs circling his eyes. The uptip of his nose fairyish; he hates it. Dean says he’s beautiful. When Sam tugs his bite-size dangly dick back, the cameltoe there is cute.

Sometimes Sam is the dollar store barbie with the pulled off head. None of Sam’s clothes seem to fit him quite right.

 

~

 

Poems are for pussies.

Sam doesn’t want crane machine bears or candy-shell chocolates. He doesn’t want to be the sounds a boy makes when he’s close. 

Sam wants adoration with no expiration. Sam wants his name to taste like crushed glass when Dean chokes on it and swallows anyway. Sam wants Dean to eat him from the inside out. Start at the center. Cut along the dotted line.

“I’m thinking of shaving my head.”

Dean nods. He isn’t paying attention. He’s sucking Sam’s asshole and dry-humping a flat pillow. 

No. Not dry. Dean is dreamy. Dean drips thick like honeyflow.

“And cutting off my arms.”

That makes Dean look up a little. Sam laughs. Also a little. He puts a hand through Dean’s hair.

“I’m sick of these parts,” Sam says, and Dean’s head ducks back down. Slip and slide. Rip then hide. Sam thinks about sewing. “I need new ones.” Suck suck. 

Dean is disgusting. No standards. He doesn’t care that Sam hasn’t seen a bath in a school week. Sam presses his face in harder to tell him how nasty he thinks his brother is. You sick fuck, Sam thinks, mindlessly in love.

Romance isn’t the same for everyone.

 

~

 

“There was this guy who lived in Plainfield.”

Sam winds a gash of his hair around two fingers. It was a long day. He had to stay after two classes to ‘talk’. Why do you carry a jackknife? You know that isn’t allowed on school grounds. Are you being hurt? The other was for disturbing imagery in a test essay.

Sam’s people mask is heavy. Sometimes it slips off when he forgets. His face is too thin to hold it up and he misses Dean all the time.

_It doubles as a screwdriver_ , Sam said. Like it explained itself. Like he even rode a bike. Sam Winchester rides in a car or on a lap. I could waste you without it, Sam thought politely. Well, okay, but consider this a verbal warning. Sam looks like the ghost of a bear cub scout.

Sometimes his mask does all the work for him. Like Dean’s does, but different.

“Was he hot?”

Dean is dumb when he’s jealous. As if Sam can’t tell.

“No, he wasn’t hot. He was old.” Sam lets go of his hair. He drums a dangerous little dance with his fingers up Dean’s muscled thigh. Adultish. “He made a lamp out of a woman. Out of a woman’s face.”

Sam’s stemmy neck breaks out in pebbles when Dean licks behind his ear, right—right there, right where there’s a purple bite, right where Sam’s hair covers it. He wouldn’t ever really shave his head.

Ted Bundy got caught by a bitemark. Dean won’t.

“And, and leggings,” Sam says, hugging Dean’s back. Sam’s getting a little hard. Dad’s probably in Mexico.

“Gein?”

Sam punches out a humid sigh. Dean’s the stuff you can’t make up. He’s exactly everything Sam wants. He knows who Sam’s talking about, he knows what Sam’s thinking about.

“Girl-suit?” Dean asks, really asking, and Sam could just fuck him right here. Right here. So he does.

 

~

 

La Llorona is the spirit who cries for her sons. Twins. She drowned them in river water and Sam thinks it’s because she caught one under the other. He doesn’t care if it isn’t true. He likes his version better.

Sam rolls his r’s until he can say it beneath his breath like a bedtime prayer. _La Llorona, qué fea. Yo también_.

 

~

 

He nicks himself a few times, learning by hand. Patches up a hole in a sock just to see. Practice. Dean’s Megadeth monstrosity. More slash than shirt at this point but Sam frankensteins it okay. It makes Dean’s eyes gloss a little when he finds it folded up on his duffel. He’s such a pretty crier. 

There’s a little tomato thing for the needles, a thimble. Stupid. It never hurts. 

Then he starts teaching himself on the Brother. That’s the kind of thing Sam knows by heart.

 

~

 

Monster after monster, a tiny family goes.

Stop off at the laundromat, run some traffic lights, new school, new school, dad’s arm in a cast, Dean’s dick in Sam’s ass. Feet off the dash. Hustle some more cash. Go, Dean, fill her up with gas. 

“I’ll come, too,” Sam says, “Want some jerky.”

Dean’s old enough now to get married if he wanted. He has red beneath his nail nubs and he’s still super into laying his little brother, psycho. Plural. Pet names. 

“Jerky,” Dean says, rubbing Sam’s ears, hollow in his belly, his belt open. All Sam can see of him from here is the underside of his jaw, the way his chin squares off like Hollywood handsomes. His loads are full cream. A man.

There are freckles below his navel. 

Truck lot bathrooms are good for hangovers, handjobs, holding your head over the rim. 

For holding your boy’s other hand when he cuts your names in the stall door’s aged paint. It’s who you are.

John doesn’t look in the rearview mirror much. The devil doesn’t actually have horns. The devil’s a freshman with a take home trig quiz due, a tug in his balls every time someone calls him Sammy like a child. Like a young wife.

Sam goes home with his mouth smelling like meat.

 

~

 

“Sometimes I think about stealing your eyes.”

This bed is the old fashioned metal frame kind with piping above the head, at the feet. The ones they use in hospitals. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, “yours are so great,” grating steel, steal a kiss. Don’t come back, Dad. Walk out that door, never come back. He’ll be back. One day Sam won’t. He’ll take Dean with him on his back.

“No.” Sam presses his tongue to the backs of Dean’s teeth. “I mean like, take them out.”

“Sam.” Fond. Funny. 

“I hate other people looking at you. I hate you looking at other people.”

Dean’s got the hips of someone who’s been a boyfriend for a long time. Dean likes what Sam likes what Dean likes. The watery stuff is shooting up Sam’s stomach, rib flat, boy-flat, almost, he’s just, so almost—

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t look.”

Sam kisses Dean’s eyelids, a string of baby goo in glops all over his chest. It was just a joke. Sam holds onto one of the slats, his legs loose around Dean’s waist, Sam’s knees all knobby and obvious. Dean would let him, though, probably. 

It’s a psych ward bed and Dean would be the prettiest patient there. Eyeless, smiling. Sam saying, _follow me, follow me_.

 

~

 

Sam is the hook and Dean is the lure.

Sam hates fishing but reeling ‘em in is good fun.

Everyone falls all over themselves for the way Dean looks. They have since he was little. Angel face.

 

~

 

There’s a grainy documentary on PBS about rerouting certain urges when Dean comes back from his ferris wheel date with the curly haired ginger-blonde. It’s after 9pm. All the really good stuff airs at night. 

“How was Courtney?” Sam says, yawny, not looking away from the TV set. 

Her name is Carla, actually, and Sam knows that. Sam doesn’t care. They’re all Courtney to Sam. 

The big shot brain doc with lots of letters behind his title says that nobody chooses to be attracted to youth but that a certain virtuosity can be taught and adhered to. Like a skill. Sam wonders if Mr. Benham is still alive.

Dr. Dumbass suggests distraction techniques to roadblock oncoming dangers. Learn a dead language, adopt careful control of your breathing. Tiny piece two-color jigsaws can soak up idle time, he says usefully. 

A suffocated sound gurgles up from inside Sam. Comes out like a funhouse laugh.

Dean is still in the tilted doorway and he hasn’t answered Sam yet. That’s okay. 

It’s enough just to look at the goldgrass of his eyes, the clutch of a time-soft Crüe shirt to nineteen year old shoulders. How the wind around him seems permanently tinged by gasoline and grief. 

Dean Winchester’s got the songworthy air of the guy who’ll come and go, not stick around any one part long enough to learn middle names, sugar honey baby angel. Fading tire tracks. The one that got away. Sam’s one and only.

Cravings can be quelled, Sam knows, but never truly fully extinguished. Not permanently.

 

~

 

The first item Sam tries to fashion is a wig.

He doesn’t get very far in because it’s a lot messier than even evil can handle. Heads are thin-skinned and they bleed like a bitch. Chunks of—something, keep getting snagged and coming up with the hair. Sam almost gags.

He’s frustrated. He might cry. He won’t cry. 

Dean brings him a grape soda and collects him in his arms, rocks him on the floor tile, shushing into his sweat-mat hair. We can try again, don’t worry. Who cares, who cares. 

Blonde wouldn’t have suited him anyway, Sam’s sure. Sam keeps her silver heart locket, though. 

 

~

 

“How did she smell?” Sam asks, overgrown weed of hair getting in his mouth.

The warm center of Dean’s lap is one of the safest places. It’s where Sam still feels tiniest.

“Like,” Dean says, hung suspended. It’s mean of Sam to make Dean talk when he’s buried in something young and willing, but he has to know. Sam squeezes his ass like a fight fist. “Like girls do.”

They used to watch VHS tapes together. Those titbags all knew how to sit on a cock and make it spit. Sam’s neck would flush up, settled on the faded floral couch next to Dean, their legs hooked, Dean’s fingers wormed down Sam’s pajamas and rubbing his little boy part. Sam had wanted to tear open Dean’s chest even then.

“But like how? What was her perfume like?” 

Sam survives on details. 

He rocks a little, sandbox legs. They used to be. They’re not anymore. Sam is someone new every day. All severe angles and cheekbones that refuse to fill. Dean still does all the work from beneath. At 15, Sam doesn’t know if he’ll ever grow into himself. The size of his hands. He’s all wrong.

“I—I don’t remember.” Dean’s got his come face on.

“ _Please_ , Dean.”

That thrust almost knocks Sam up with triplets and Dean harshes out a sob.

“Maybe like roses. Like sweet rain.” He runs a palm up Sam’s bare spine, helpless. “The deep south. Fresh.”

Sam’s big enough now to be fucked the way Dean’s fucking him. He doesn’t have to be plucked open every time anymore.

“When she hugged me bye, her neck smelled like a field. Somewhere you could,” wince, sigh, warm spill of white.

“Leave bodies?” Sam says, and Dean bites him. Hard. 

“Make love.”

“Both?” Sam likes both. Sam wants both.

“Yeah, both.”

 

~

 

After Courtney-Carla, there’s Courtney-Chrissy, Courtney-Joann, Courtney-Malerie.

There’s Dean french kissing Sam’s ankle and thumping thrash rock to cover any unruly noise. 

“I can’t,” Sam says, wiping heat from his eyes. “Holy shit, I can’t. This is nasty.” He can barely touch them. He certainly can’t wear them. 

There’s a torso in the tub. 

“Did you fuck her?”

Dean’s got an electric turkey carver in his hand, waiting for Sam to hand him scraps. They had a rhythm going. He’s the unreal beautiful, the type that always sounds made up. 

“Did you?” Sam demands. He should slap Dean across the face. “Did you fuck any of them? Did you fuck all of them?”

“No?”

“No?” Sam stands. The room spins. The room smells like pennies. “Why is that a question?” Why is Sam questioning. “You don’t know if you did?” Dean stands, too, not putting the carver down. Sam oughta lop off his dick for cheating. He’s crying. He hates Dean. Dean is the only thing he’s ever loved.

“I didn’t,” Dean says. His voice is like a cleaver and Sam suddenly believes him. He’s always believed in Dean. Throw in his last dollar, bet his life. “I didn’t want to.”

Sam has a dogbone body and he just wanted to be something nice to look at. Maybe Dean thinks he is.

Dean slaps him. Makes his nose rush red, pour out. Dean kisses him just like in the movies. Sam’s jackknife falls. Brothers can never stop being brothers.

 

~

 

The garbage disposal is rumbling and hacking and doing its job when John gets home from wherever wherever doing whatever whatever.

“Oh,” Sam says when he sees him. “Snuff anything good?”

John looks at him, hairy brow high. He knows Dad thinks he’s a weirdo kid. He’s right. This one’s got a papercut smile and a ticker like a pincushion, full of little stabs. 

Sam’s wristing sweat off his eyebrow when Dad goes for a rinse, when Dean leans in for a peck, eyes closed. Both eyes. He still has them. Sam discreetly rinses coins down the kitchen sink drain. Tub’s clean. 

 

~

 

“Something’s killing girls,” John says, circling shit in the paper. A pack of Marlboro blacks in his shirt-pocket. 

Dean’s making eggs. Sizzle, hiss. He’s whistling. He got his dick sucked an hour ago.

Sam’s not going to cut his hair. Maybe forever. Maybe he’ll make a noose out of it. It sounds cute. It sounds childish. Grow up. He got an A- on his Spanish II project. Mexican urban legends. Stuff he learned when he was still teething.

 

~

 

Hot night, sticky backseat. Teenagers in love can do real bad shit. The leather is slimy with use and Dad might be getting a truck. He’s Dad when he gives Sam something to smile about.

“Sam, do you love me?” Dean says, shadows where greenery used to be. At night, he’s hideous. He’s gorgeous.

Sam’s limbs swing, his toes touch the roof of the car. Everything is grit, is grease, is vaseline. It’ll stink like pussy in here for a week. Sam’s got Dean’s favorite one.

“Don’t you? You do, right?” 

“All my heart,” Sam says, bringing a bruise up on Dean’s pale ghost throat, “and some of yours, too.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

Yeah. Because whatever went wrong with Dean's composition, Sam is made up of the same exact stuff. I love you, love me, fuck, I can feel you all the way, oh, keep going, stay in me, Sam, Dean.

Outside somewhere, a hawk is eating a vole. Crunch sounds, end sounds; that’s the nature of nature. Be eaten or eat. Sam sucks at the fat of Dean’s lips, centers himself down on dick to stay for awhile.

**Author's Note:**

> title from the film [Three on a Meathook](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_on_a_Meathook)
> 
> La Llorona, qué fea. Yo también. = weeping woman, how ugly. me, too.


End file.
